User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 38
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Thirty-Eight 2 September 1994 Bloody leg. Barty had known getting around with it would be difficult, but he hadn’t realised how painful it would be until he tried walking the quarter mile from the front gates to the main entrance of Hogwarts. He was glad now that he’d grabbed the walking stick on his way out of Moody’s flat. He’d observed Moody covertly for a week, and he’d only seen the old man use it once, when he went out for what had turned out to an extended round of shopping in Diagon Alley. Barty hoped no one would notice how much he leant on it. The stairs at Hogwarts would be a problem. Barty hadn’t thought about how many times a teacher had to climb them every day. The Floo took him from his quarters to his office and back, but there were chaperone duties on the grounds, security rounds at night, and meals in the Great Hall three times a day. By the time dinner of his second day came around, he could barely walk, and he was ready to Cruciate anyone who looked at him wrong. As he made his painful way down the last flight of the main staircase, he spied Potter near the end of the queue to get into the Great Hall. He appeared to be arguing with someone. Barty had to suppress a grin as Potter turned and the little Malfoy poof fired a hex at his back. Finally, an excuse to dole out a little punishment! A shame he couldn’t use the Cruciatus, but he had another spell ready. He was very good at Transfiguring people into small animals; it was his speciality and had often amused his fellow Death Eaters. Including Lucius Malfoy, who hadn’t spent so much as one hour in Azkaban, but went on with his happy little life as if his Master had never existed. Barty cast at Malfoy, adding a garbled “laddie” to the end of his shout to cover the fact that he’d forgotten to renew the charm on his voice before coming out of his quarters. He did it quickly and silently as he limped down the steps. The room had gone quiet, people at the front of the queue standing on tiptoe to see what was going on. Barty’s heart thumped with anticipation, as it always did when he had a victim in his sights, but he reminded himself that he was there to take Potter—alive—for his Master, so he went first to the boy to make sure he wasn’t injured by Malfoy’s hex. Malfoy, now a greasy white ferret, tried to scuttle away, his escape hampered by the potentially lethal feet of the crowd. Running away just like his bastard father. Scum. Barty turned and pointed his wand at the ferret. It took all his willpower not to blast him into oblivion. He settled for bouncing him up and down, just hard enough to hurt without killing him. “Professor Moody!” The magical eye spun around in Barty’s head to see Minerva McGonagall standing at the first landing, a stack of books in her arms. For a fleeting moment he was again the lonely, mousey eleven-year-old he’d been, caught in some childish transgression by the terrifying head of Gryffindor, but he laughed it off. What was she going to do about it, write to his father? “Hello, Professor McGonagall.” “What— what are you doing?” “Teaching.” “Teach— Moody, is that a student?” Her voice was high and shrill, but Barty didn’t turn around. “Yep.” “No!” He heard a clatter and felt the whoosh of a spell from behind him, and the ferret changed back into a blonde boy cowering on the floor. McGonagall flew down the staircase, wand drawn. The crowd parted for her, and she stopped a few paces away from Barty, staring at him. Her face was ashen. “Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment. Surely Dumbledore told you that.” Her voice had dropped at least an octave, and her wand was still clutched tightly in her hand. A frisson of fear passed through Barty. Minerva McGonagall was a formidable magical practitioner, as some of his colleagues had discovered to their dismay during the last war, and the way her eyes were fixed on him made him think of Jimmy Wilkes, and how his had widened in surprise when he’d taken her curse. She hadn’t intended to kill him, probably, but the force of her spell, meant for the Dark Lord but intercepted by Jimmy, had opened his chest wide enough so that Barty could watch his heart beat its last. He forced himself to keep a casual tone. “He might have mentioned it, yeah, but I thought a good sharp shock—” “We give detentions, Moody. Or speak to the offender’s head of house.” Barty relaxed a little when she put her wand away. He saw that she was shaking. She was afraid as well as angry. Interesting. “I’ll do that, then,” he said. After he’d dragged Malfoy away and dumped him on Snape—another one Barty would like to get alone at the end of his wand—he watched McGonagall at dinner. She said little and ate even less. Barty had managed to put her off-kilter already. Good. ~oOo~ Minerva brought a forkful of roast chicken to her mouth and chewed mechanically without tasting it. She only managed to swallow a few bites before giving up in favour of pushing the food around her plate. She barely heard any of the debate Albus was having with Filius, and gave only perfunctory answers when they attempted to engage her. Thankfully, Severus sat between Alastor and Minerva. He wasn’t one for dinner-table chat, so there was no danger he’d entangle her in a conversation about what had transpired earlier. Midway through dinner, Albus leant down and whispered, “Is everything all right?” “Of course.” “You’re very quiet, and you’ve barely touched your food. I was afraid you might be unwell.” “I’m quite well, thank you. It’s just that I’m afraid I’ve made an error in the funding request for the extra provisions for our visitors.” “No matter, my dear. We have two more months before they arrive, so you can simply resubmit it,” he said. “Are you certain that’s all that’s bothering you?” “Yes.” She rose before the pudding was served, and felt Albus’s eyes on her as she left the Great Hall. A dram of Cardhu failed to quieten her nerves, so she poured herself another with hands that were still less than steady. The idea that Alastor would use Transfiguration to discipline a student was bad enough, but he’d seemed utterly unconcerned about the effect his stunt had had on her. In fact, the tiny smile that he’d given her when he’d left with the Malfoy boy in tow had been almost cruel. Did he really hate her so much? She drank the remainder of the Scotch in one swallow and sat with her eyes closed for a few minutes. As the liquor made its way into her bloodstream, her emotions settled a little, and she tried to think rationally about things. She knew that Alastor had changed over the years, become sharper and more paranoid, prone to hallucinations, which was likely due to the insult to his brain when he’d lost so much blood in the accident that took his leg. Malcolm had told her a bit about the changes to his personality, but he had never prepared her for an Alastor who would want to wound her so deeply out of spite. No. It simply wasn’t possible. There had to be another explanation. Perhaps his memory was impaired? That awful Healer had raised the possibility all those years ago. Or could he be on the drink again? Alastor’s old flask had made an appearance at dinner … As terrible as either thought was, each was more bearable than the idea that he had deliberately tormented her about the worst memory of her life. She tried to push it from her mind over the ensuing days, but every time she saw Draco Malfoy’s resentful face looking back at her during class, it came flooding back, and she finally acknowledged that she’d have to confront it. She decided to speak to Alastor in the evening, in his quarters—his turf, inasmuch as anyplace in Hogwarts might be said to be his rather than hers—in order to put him as little on the defensive as possible. She wanted him to feel safe, to know that he could still trust her, and that even if he had done it purposely, she would not hold it against him if he could acknowledge the deep hurt he’d caused her this evening. They could get past it. ~oOo~ Barty expected McGonagall to go running to Dumbledore about the ferret incident. It had been a mistake; he’d let his anger get the better of him, and if it had compromised the mission, he’d be in terrible trouble with the Dark Lord. He knew he’d have to talk alone with Dumbledore eventually, but he’d been hoping to postpone it until he was more comfortable in his role as Moody. But no call to the headmaster’s office to discuss the incident came. Over the next few days, though, he got the sense that McGonagall was watching him closely, either on Dumbledore’s orders or on her own initiative. He’d have to be careful with her. Next to Dumbledore, McGonagall was the biggest threat, and she was Potter’s head of house, so she’d be watching over the boy carefully. Although Moody had said they didn’t know one another well, he and McGonagall had been in the Order of the Phoenix together, and they’d seen one another socially a few times. It would be wise to avoid any chance that she’d notice something amiss. Barty did his best to keep as much distance between them as possible. He took care never to sit next to her at meals, and he never went into the staffroom. If they were scheduled for the same patrol hours, he made sure to duck into another room if he heard the click of her heels. So he was unpleasantly surprised when she appeared at the door to his quarters one evening after dinner. “Hello, Alastor.” “Professor.” “May I come in?” He almost said no but thought the better of it. It might make her wonder what he had to hide. “It’s your school,” he said, leaving the door open and limping back into the sitting room. She followed him and stood there awkwardly, waiting for him to invite her to sit, but he was silent. “I wanted to see how you were getting on. Are you comfortable here?” she asked. “Yep.” “Good.” The damned magical eye, which sometimes seemed to have a mind of its own, gave Barty an unwanted glance under her clothes. He’d have expected white cotton granny knickers and a bra like a fortress, but surprisingly, it was pale blue lace. She flushed, but soldiered on. “I had hoped we might have a chance to talk. To catch up a bit.” Merlin’s balls. Barty searched his memory for what Moody had told him about her. He had said they went out to dinner several times in London and that nothing particularly interesting had happened, so Barty hadn’t grilled him for the specifics, but now she wanted to waltz down memory lane for some reason. And it was time for his next dose of Polyjuice. Past it, actually. “Catch up?” he said. “Let’s see: Over the past few years, I was training Aurors, but they bounced me out about a year ago because they didn’t like my methods. Since then, I’ve been sitting around my flat eating lots of takeaway fish and chips and reading Muggle novels. No one much comes to see me, and I don’t go to see them, and that’s how I like it. A few weeks ago, Dumbledore asked me to come up here to teach, so here I am. You’ve been teaching and helping Dumbledore look after Potter. Anything else is none of my business, so you can keep it to yourself.” He expected her to storm out in a green-tartan huff, but she just looked at him with great sadness, which puzzled him. The slight tingling began under Barty’s skin, heralding the coming transformation. He pulled the flask from his pocket and took three swallows. A funny expression passed over McGonagall’s face. So she’d noticed his grimace at the awful taste of the potion. Shit. He’d had too little time to prepare for this mission. He would have liked to perfect his performance—little things like the grimace could give him away. But when the Dark Lord wanted something, he wanted it immediately, and Barty would never presume to argue with him, but the speed with which he’d had to ready himself had forced him to cut some corners. The lacewing flies had only been stewed for twelve days, which meant that the potion’s period of efficacy was greatly reduced. He had to dose himself every two hours around the clock, to be safe. At least Moody’s flask had come in handy. He was known for it, so it wouldn’t look odd for Barty to drink from it often, but it was supposed to be Butterbeer or something equally wholesome. He didn’t want anyone wondering what was in the flask that tasted so awful. He had to get rid of her before he dropped any more inadvertent clues. “If that’s all, Professor, I have things to do,” he said. She didn’t move. “Is it so terrible even to be in the same room with me?” It was nearly a whisper, and Barty scoffed to himself at her stupid, Gryffindorian need to be liked. “What are you after, coming to my rooms at this hour? Did Dumbledore send you?” He stepped toward her, hoping she’d be intimidated by his greater size, but she held her ground. Glaring at her with both eyes, he asked, “Is that it?” “No, I—” “Are you spying on me?” “Of course not.” “I don’t believe you.” “Alastor, please listen. I—” “Or did you come here for something else? Maybe you finally realised what you were missing. Well, if a quick ride is what you’re after, I’m happy to oblige. You’re a bit of all right under those clothes.” Barty let the magical eye rove over her for a moment, keeping the other trained on her face. She was bright pink now, hands clutching at the selvedge of her robes. “What is wrong with you?” she asked. “Nothing, aside from a few missing parts. But what’s left still works.” He took another limping step toward her and grabbed her arm. She shook him off. “Don’t you touch me!” “What’s the problem? You didn’t come down here tarted up in your fancy knickers just for a friendly chat, did you?” “I came down here because I foolishly thought we might sort things out and be friends after all this time. I shan’t make that mistake again.” She fled the room, slamming the door behind her. Barty had the feeling she wouldn’t be back. Excellent. 23 February 1995 “Excuse me,” Minerva said to Severus’s back as he raced down the corridor, having nearly knocked her over on his way out of the staffroom. She shook her head and went in, then stopped just inside the doorway. Alastor was standing by the tea table, handing a set of robes to Dobby the house-elf. “Wait a minute,” he said, although she’d made no move either to leave or enter the room. “Come over here. I want to ask you something.” Minerva’s temper flared. She was a not a lapdog to be summoned! She was about to say as much, and tell him that he could bloody well come to her office if he wanted to meet with her, when she noticed him rubbing his bad leg. The cold February air was probably giving him a lot of pain. Her own joints had taken to aching several years back whenever winter settled in around the draughty castle. Glancing over to where Pomona and Filius huddled rather too obviously over the chess board, Minerva pulled her heavy outer robe more tightly around herself and entered the room, shutting the door behind her. “Yes, Professor Moody?” “Have you talked with Weasley and Granger yet?” “About what?” “Going into the lake.” She was momentarily taken aback. Only the heads, Ludo Bagman, and Barty Crouch—if he could be found—were supposed to know about the hostages. But she reminded herself that Albus would have consulted Alastor about security. After the first few weeks of term, when it had become painfully clear that Professors McGonagall and Moody were not, in fact, going to be friends ever again, or even friendly colleagues, Albus had stopped including Minerva in his discussions with Alastor. “No,” she said. “I intend to do it after dinner this evening. Albus, Olympe, and I thought it best to wait in order to avoid the possibility that one of them would let something slip.” “Good idea. Make sure to tell them not to antagonise the merpeople. Dumbledore trusts the slimy buggers, but I don’t.” His peremptory tone infuriated her, but she held her temper. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing that he’d roused it. “The hostages will be in an enchanted sleep.” She couldn’t help adding, “Or didn’t Albus tell you that bit?” He ignored her tone. “That’ll make it tough for them to escape if the champions don’t rescue them in time,” he said. He’d hit on a sore spot. Albus had assured her and the other heads that the merpeople would return any hostages who were not rescued, and that they would not harm any of the champions, but it still worried Minerva. Merpeople had a reputation for craftiness and deception, and they had no great liking for humans. Albus had spent years building a relationship between himself and the Black Lake’s colony, going so far as to learn Mermish, and he counted their chieftainess as a friend. Minerva had expressed her doubts in no uncertain terms, but Albus had overruled her, and there was nothing for it but to trust in his judgement. She searched Alastor’s face for clues that he was goading her, but he merely peered back at her with an expression of mild interest. Attempting a neutral tone, she said, “I’m quite sure Albus has made certain that—” “What do you think Potter’s chances of getting Weasley back are?” The heat rose in her face. He was definitely goading her. If he’d spoken with Albus, he likely knew that she wasn’t optimistic that Harry would manage it. In fact, she hoped Harry hadn’t worked out how to breathe underwater at all. That way, he wouldn’t be able to dive deep enough to encounter the Grindylows or, Merlin forbid, a Naiad, or any of the other hazards the loch held. Hermione had been helping him, so there was a chance they’d worked something out, but the kind of Transfiguration that would give him an aquatic creature’s ability to survive underwater was far beyond the capabilities of either child, and though they could probably manage a Bubble-Head Charm, its buoyancy would hinder his ability to swim quickly in deep water. She told Alastor, “I’m not at all certain he’ll be successful. The magic that will be required isn’t taught until seventh year.” “What about Gillyweed?” Alastor asked. “Gillyweed?” Minerva frowned to herself. She remembered reading something about its magical properties, but she didn’t recall it clearly. “Yeah. If you eat it, you develop gills.” He was speaking a little too loudly, and Minerva wondered if his hearing was going. “As helpful as that would be for the task, Professor Moody, it would present something of a problem later on.” Pomona piped up from across the room. “Not at all. The effect is temporary, directly correlated with the amount one eats.” “And how much would he need to eat to have gills for, say, an hour?” “Oh, I think about an ounce or two would do it. There have been a few studies. I’m surprised you know about it, Professor Moody. It’s quite a rare plant, and not many people are aware of its uses.” “I read about it in a book.” “The one you lent to Longbottom?” Pomona asked. “The very one.” Minerva formed a sudden suspicion that Alastor was trying to pump Pomona for information. “You didn’t tell this to Potter, did you?” she asked. “What if I did?” “It would, in fact, be cheating.” Alastor snorted. “As if Karkaroff and Maxime haven’t helped their champions.” “I don’t care what the other—” “Don’t get your knickers in a twist I didn’t say anything to Potter,” Alastor said. “But it isn’t cheating if Longbottom happens to mention it to him. Anyway, I don’t know where he’d get Gillyweed around here. The apothecary in Hogsmeade doesn’t carry it, and it only grows in the Mediterranean.” “It’s a shame he hasn’t asked me,” said Pomona. “I have a few small pots of it in one of the greenhouses. I’m almost tempted to—” “Pomona …” Minerva said in a warning voice. “All right, Minerva,” Pomona said, holding up her hand. “I won’t say a word. Why would I want to give Potter an advantage over Cedric? And before you ask, I haven’t mentioned it to him, either.” “Well,” said Alastor. “There’s still a chance. Potter’s got until tomorrow at 9:30 to figure it out or have someone else clue him in. And no, it won’t be me, so don’t give me your famous glare. What are you still doing here? Go on.” Minerva was about to explode when he added, “And get it right this time. No starch. Don’ make me tell you again.” She realised was addressing Dobby, who was still standing there holding a pile of robes. “Yes, Professor Moody,” Dobby said, and popped away. When she returned to her quarters later that evening, she couldn’t concentrate on her marking, and finally gave up in favour of brooding over the encounter with Alastor. His viciousness the night she’d gone to his quarters had cured her of any notion of rapprochement between them, but they’d seemed to have entered a sort of detente. Whatever the reason for his behaviour—true malice, neurological impairment, or some malign combination of both—it had been too awful to face, and she’d taken the coward’s way out ever since, avoiding him whenever possible. It hadn’t been difficult, as Alastor seemed equally disinclined to spend any time in her company. They’d managed to stay blessedly out of one another’s way. Which is why she’d been so surprised to see him in the staffroom that afternoon. He’d never shown up there before, to the best of her knowledge, and certainly not to any of the 4:30 teas that she habitually took with the other heads. When she thought about it, what bothered her most about the entire episode was the way Alastor had spoken to the elf. While she’d been stunned at the vitriol with which he had treated her since he’d come to Hogwarts, at least it made a twisted sort of sense. They had a history that made any relationship between them difficult, and she understood that his nastiness was, in part, a protective mechanism, although that made it no easier to bear. But for him to be so nasty to a house-elf? That was nothing like the Alastor she’d once loved. He’d been uncomfortable around Elgar, true, but only because the idea of someone serving him in that way was so alien. As gruff as he could sometimes be, Alastor had never been unkind. She’d had no reports of problems from the students, thank Merlin, but she had heard them talk about him, and the Alastor Moody they described seemed almost a parody of the man he’d once been, his loathing for Dark wizards and his admonitions about constant vigilance exaggerated into caricature. She watched him surreptitiously the next day. He was agitated, pacing back and forth when it seemed that Potter wasn’t going to show up. He appeared to relax a little when the boy raced in at the last possible moment, and when it emerged that Potter had used Gillyweed after all, he wore a look of smug satisfaction that lifted Minerva’s spirits. If he’d told Harry about the Gillyweed—and she had little doubt he had done—it had been out of kindness. She was certain of it. ← Back to Chapter 37 On to Chapter 39→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A